


My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me

by ClydeThistles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Yennaia, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles
Summary: Tissaia teaches younger Yennefer how to dress like a Sorceress.Title taken from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me

“It’s so unfair that Giltine chooses our dresses for the ball!”

Sabrina frowns and tosses the high ponytail she has taken to wearing her blonde hair in. Fringilla arches an eyebrow at her (no one is brave enough to point out that it’s a habit she’s picked up from Tissaia),

“You think you know better than the Artist?”

“They dress us up, give us to our kings and then bundle us off to court. What are we meant to do when we get there? No Artist, no Rectoress and no wardrobe to speak of.” Sabrina plucks with distaste at her teal adept’s gown that, however much of an improvement on the ugly novice smocks they used to wear, is still rather unflattering. “We’ve spent years in this godsforsaken sackcloth and all of a sudden they expect us to dress like Sorceresses.”

“If choosing what to wear is your greatest conundrum at court then you will count yourself fortunate, Mistress Glevissig.”

Tissaia’s voice rings out from the doorway that she has appeared in without warning. Sabrina somehow manages to jump in surprise, frown at being scolded and preen at being addressed as ‘Mistress’ all at the same time. The other adepts fail in their attempts not to appear envious. Sabrina is the only one Tissaia has granted the formal title accorded to Sorceresses thus far. The rest of them get their first names if they’re lucky and ‘girl’ if they have displeased the Rectoress. Yennefer is only thankful that ‘piglet’ has not been uttered in the years since she first succeeded in beguiling Istredd.

Tissaia sweeps into the room with her customary aplomb, instantly drawing everyone’s attention to her effortlessly. She turns to face the group of ten adepts gathered before her, some from Yennefer’s intake and some from the years after. There has been unrest and dissatisfaction in many of the Kingdoms forcing the Chapter to assign younger Sorceresses than they would normally. Usually, there would be a period of apprenticeship after Ascending but the girls (women, Tissaia corrects herself internally) before her will be thrown into the deep end, advising their monarchs as soon as they arrive.

“Your training will only take you so far, you must find within yourselves what is required to become an effective Court Mage. It is not as simple as what you wear, but your clothes, how you conduct yourselves, are useful tools. I cannot teach you how to become a Sorceress, but I can show you how to _look_ like one. Kings are simple creatures, they trust what is before their eyes, what they can hold in their two hands.”

Sabrina sniggers and Tissaia throws her a sharp look, “Do not bring your infantile proclivities into my lessons. You will discover soon enough what it means to have a King’s hands on you and, more importantly, how to turn it to your advantage.” A frown clouds her features briefly, “Lest it be _you_ that is taken advantage of.” She clears her face and urges her students, “Learn it now, your body is a powerful tool but see to it that it remains _yours._ ”

Eager to distract her students from the momentary display of emotion, Tissaia opts for more flamboyance than she would usually condone in her casting. She claps her hands twice, the younger mages shivering at the ripple of Chaos that reaches them as the Rectoress effortlessly conjures rows of outfits, all neatly arranged on mannequins. Kaleidoscopic colours shimmer, satins and silks glinting in the candlelight, furs rustling a little after being drawn from thin air. Tissaia nods towards the clothes,

“Your gown for the Ball is chosen to suit your King’s tastes, to appeal to _his_ ideal of what makes a good Court Mage. Once you are in his court it is up to you to decide what you will look like. Be cautious, you must still please him but please him too far and you will lose the goodwill of his Queen. And you must find a style that suits yourself – one that will become your signature, one that will outlive your monarchs. Go, search.”

The adepts step towards the gowns, some tentatively and others with an enthusiasm bordering on violence. Yennefer dithers but is drawn to a lilac number with a sweetheart neckline and diaphanous sleeves. It will accentuate her eyes and it is exactly what she imagines a lady of leisure wearing, impractical and insubstantial. She is wriggling into it, screening herself behind a row of mannequins when she hears Tissaia,

“Sabrina, you are bound for Kaedwen not Zerrikania – I would suggest something with more fur and less string, my dear.”

Yennefer pokes her head up and sees Sabrina parading around in something that looks like some leather pieces held together with red velvet cords. Tissaia is frowning but Yennefer is certain she can see a hint of amusement in her eyes, something akin to fond exasperation. And it makes Yennefer crumble inside. Because she is never going to look right, not until after her Enchantment and even then, Tissaia will never look at her that way. As though she has accidentally projected her thoughts, Tissaia turns suddenly to where Yennefer is fumbling with the sash at the high waistline. The Rectoress approaches and insists,

“Come out, Yennefer, let me see you.”

Yennefer shuffles out and tries to stand tall in the pastel-coloured gown. Tissaia eyes her up and down, her gaze softer than Yennefer might have expected, and shakes her head,

“No, that’s not right. It’s too pretty.”

Yennefer has the odd sensation of feeling both deflated and buoyed. Tissaia is not satisfied but Tissaia just called her pretty. Her conflicting emotions must betray themselves in her expression because the Rectoress sighs and turns her with a light touch on her shoulder to face a full-length mirror. It is only later that Yennefer realises she didn’t flinch at the contact with her hunch. She is usually loath to have it touched, not even Istredd has permission to place his hands there. Tissaia continues,

“There will be dozens of pretty, empty-headed girls for the King to enjoy should he wish. He need not find you pretty, he need not even find you beautiful. But he must be drawn to you, you must be alluring.”

Yennefer can hear the chatter of her classmates, the squeals as they get carried away with the luxurious fabrics, expensive jewellery and exotic scents. Tissaia remains quiet and still, keeping her focus on Yennefer and instructing,

“Forget the others. Look at me.” Once Yennefer has raised her eyes to lock with Tissaia’s in the mirror, the older mage speaks again, “Tell me what you see.”

Yennefer swallows hard, this must be a trick. Her caution makes Tissaia smile a little,

“You have learnt to think before speaking at least. Have no fear, I am not testing you. What do you see when you look at me?”

Yennefer’s voice trembles but she succeeds in not croaking, “You’re beautiful.”

Tissaia’s eyelids flutter momentarily but she regains control of herself quickly, “What else? Look for the details.”

Yennefer studies the reflection beside her, convinced this is a dream where she is finally allowed to drink in the sight of Tissaia, to openly stare and commit each detail to memory.

“Your collars make you look tall even though you’re not. And the pendant, it’s a symbol of your authority but it sits on your, your… chest. It makes people look there. The colours you wear are like jewels, but nothing is too bright, too gaudy or cheap-looking.”

“Good. Now, imagine me in this dress you have chosen. Do you think for a moment the Chapter would take me seriously? I would be the same woman with the same mind and talents, but I’d be laughed out the door, no?”

“It’s so unfair though! Why shouldn’t you wear it if you want to? Why must we dress to please others?”

Tissaia’s voice becomes vehement, still hushed but thick with fervour, “I dress for no one but myself, _this_ is the lesson Yennefer. You choose your outfit for how it makes you feel not what others see. Your lilac confection would make me feel soft, pretty, pampered – that is what the Chapter would ridicule. Not the gown itself, but the effect it had on me.”

Yennefer knows it is not what she should be gleaning from this conversation but all she can think about now is the image of Tissaia soft and unbound, lounging on a recliner barefoot and in floaty fabric, her hair loose about her face. Yennefer would give anything to see that, would eviscerate anyone who dared mock the woman in her softness. Whilst she has indulged in these daydreams, Tissaia has retrieved a black beaded dress with a short leather jacket, snug on the collarbones and round the shoulder-blades, as though it were pauldrons on a suit of armour. Yennefer frowns,

“It’s black. Only widows and old academics wear black… Stregebor and Artorius wear black.”

“Do as I say, Yennefer. This one.”

Tissaia turns her back politely as Yennefer changes but her ears cannot be so easily averted and she catches the rustle of fabric, the slide of it against Yennefer’s skin. To her chagrin, it brings a flush to her high cheekbones. Damn the girl and the strange hold she has on her!

“I’m ready.”

It is not the first time Tissaia has heard those words from her. And, just as before, she hears the unspoken ones behind them, the offering, the longing. Ready for what? Tissaia does not want the answer to that question. She is not certain she would have the strength to turn down the offer, to refuse Yennefer. Not the offer of her body, her bed (although Tissaia suspects that drives some of the young mage’s intentions) but the closeness, the… love. It has been some time since Tissaia bedded anyone, but it has been even longer since she allowed herself to love, to be loved. And this fierce and frightened, broken but powerful young woman is not a prudent place to begin feeling again. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders to settle herself, Tissaia turns and takes in the sight of Yennefer in the new gown. She is striking. There is no other word for it. There is a physical, tangible effect of her appearance, as though struck in the face and forced to backpedal.

“It’s ridiculous, I look stupid.”

Yennefer curls in on herself but Tissaia strides forward, turning her firmly to the mirror,

“Enough! _Look_ at yourself.”

As she speaks, Tissaia gathers up Yennefer’s hair and coils it in a twist, securing it with a delicately carved ivory pin. Yennefer shivers at the touch, at the slide of the black satin on her skin, the faint jingling of the tiny glass beads down her bodice. It hugs her body, makes her look dark and fierce and, yes, beautiful. She feels powerful in it and she knows she has found her style.

“Stunning.”

Tissaia breathes the word, a hand still resting lightly on the nape of Yennefer’s neck. Yennefer smiles and (uncertain where the daring has come from but enjoying it) she reaches out to run a finger down the cold chain of Tissaia’s pendant, tracing the tip over the geometric design and round the polished stone.

“I need one of these.”

Tissaia cannot find her voice to reply so only nods and inspects the selection of jewellery within reach. Her hand hovers over some diamonds, an emerald, a gold choker but comes to rest on a silky black ribbon with a small disc of obsidian, carved into a star. Without being told, Yennefer turns so Tissaia can fasten it round her neck for her and settle it carefully into the notch above her collarbones, her fingers lingering long enough to feel her pulse. She nods in satisfaction,

“This one. It’s right. A dark star…” She pauses and lets her eyes flicker up to meet Yennefer’s, “My dark star.”

“Yenna! You’ve been ages, let us see you!”

Sabrina’s voice cuts through the moment and Tissaia steps back as though stung. Yennefer reaches for her but the Rectoress clasps her hands firmly at her own waist, shutting herself off once more.

“Go, the world is waiting.”

Yennefer risks one more glance filled with longing and almost breaks Tissaia’s façade, almost but not quite. So, she glares and walks away, revelling in the envy and appreciation she sees on the others’ faces. Tissaia was right. In amongst the rich colours and feathers and fluff, she shines dark and mysterious.

* * * *

After the Enchantment Yennefer refuses Giltine’s offer of the grey dress selected for Vifuril, the red atrocity Fergus chose. It is tempting to wear something other than the black gown to spite Tissaia, to make it clear she is not her puppet, not _her_ anything. But nothing else makes Yennefer feel so right as the outfit they’d chosen together. So, she puts it on and fastens the star round her neck. She shakes her curls free though, the tumbling locks her act of defiance. And, when she watches Tissaia’s face, sees the torrent of emotions chase across it, Yennefer knows she is a Sorceress. Because the beauty of Tissaia's feelings displayed and the answering Chaos that surges through Yennefer is nothing short of magic.


End file.
